Julio Caesare, or just plain Caesar, and his crew came skulking in after dark, swaggering rather, though still making sure that they were not followed or watched, and a dangerous-looking lot they were. All sported daggers in their waist sashes, the bulges of small pocket pistols in their baggy, loose slop trousers, and additional sailors’ work knives. They looked a blend of Sicily’s history of Greek, Roman, Saracen, and Norman blood, all dark, brooding eyes, sun-bronzed skin, and shaggy, clubbed-back hair under shapeless hats or knit caps.
Lewrie had met pirates in the West Indies and Bahamas, Asiatic pirates in the Far East and South China Seas, and had unwillingly dealt with Serbian pirates in the Adriatic, and was convinced that this lot could give all of them a run for their money. Quill did the introductions, explaining that Lewrie had no Italian, which admission made the leader break into a crafty smile as if he was contemplating just how badly this Inglese could be fleeced.
“My capitani, Signore Luigi,” Caesar said in surprising English.
“Lewrie,” Lewrie corrected.
“Non importa,” Caesar shrugged off, “This is ’Tonio … Paulo…’Tonio … Alfonso…’Tonio … Pietro…’Tonio … and, Antonio. His madre insists.”
“Gentlemen,” Lewrie said in greeting, nodding to each one. He took a quick glance over at Deavers, who was frozen in a rictus somewhere ’twixt awe, and an urge to reach for his pistol. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“Captain Lewrie thinks he has need of your services, Caesar,” Quill said, translating to Italian right after, phrase by phrase. “He has one large warship and three transports with many boats, and about four hundred troops, all told. He wishes to land them over on the mainland to kill Frenchmen.”
“I Francesi!” Caesar spat, making a slit motion over his throat, and his captains growled their dislike, with “bastardi!”, “diavoli!”, “donnaccias”, and other vulgar expressions of disgust. They spat, too; on the floor and the one ragged carpet, which would do it no good.
“The whores, they are brutes,” Caesar growled, “and bad for business. They swarm like the locusta, eat up and steal everything in Campania Naples, Basilicata, Calabria, even to Puglia! The poor people they starve, suffer in fear, and no woman is safe! I wish to kill all of them!” He then lapsed into Italian in his rage.
“The French are bad,” Quill translated in snatches. “The Poles, Germans, Dutch even worse … he hates the Genoese, Piedmontese, Lombards, and Neapolitans worst of all. Whores, slavish … traitors to Italy … boot-licking turncoats … act like Huns and barbarians out of their own provinces … Vesuvius should wake and burn them all to Hell. How can he help you kill some?”
“I need information, most of all,” Lewrie began to explain as Caesar and his men calmed down from their rant. “Places where a small force can land, make a raid, then get out quickly. Places where there are good, sandy beaches. Watch towers and semaphore towers with weak garrisons, small ports where the French gather boats to use to invade Sicily.”
Slowly, in both English and Italian, Lewrie and Quill laid out the need for the presence of French and allied soldiers, how many at a certain location, whether there were forts or artillery batteries, and soundings near those forts and beaches, so Vigilance could close the coast to use her guns on the forts, and the transports could anchor close enough to make for a quick row ashore. He’d need to know if a particular beach had easy access to the targets, an easily-ascended slope behind it, a coast road, or a steep cliff.
“You know which place you want to go?” Caesar asked, scratching his stubbly chin with a shrewd expression.
“Not immediately, no,” Lewrie had to confess. “That’s why I need the information you would supply me. Think of a weakly held place that would hurt the French, a place with good beaches, easy access, so that my troops could get in, raise the Devil, then get out quickly.”
Quill translated that for all, making them share looks with each other, before Caesar began to grin. “I know a place, signore,” he said, “a small fishing port, where coastal traders put in, too. There is a small fortification to one side of the harbour, but it is old, very old. Maybe the Vandals or the Normans put it there, so I do not see openings for cannon, except on the top, and that is small. The place is held by Piedmontese lap-dogs, no French, but killing Piedmontese is almost as good.” He turned to one of the ’Tonios to palaver for a bit, then resumed his description. “’Tonio says the last time he was there, he did not think there were more than five hundred soldiers, but their Colonnello sends many of them to loot inland, and collect the taxes, so not all would be there all the time. There is a good beach North of town, close to town, and there is a road just above it that leads to the town and the piers and store houses. At the piers there are many boats and small ships that can be burned or taken away. How you say, the prize-money; si?”
“It sounds perfect,” Lewrie said, curbing any enthusiasm that he felt. “Far enough away from other French garrisons?”
“Two hours or more, by foot,” Caesar informed him with a shrug. “Alfonso knows the place, too, and does not remember cavalry.”
“Where is it?” Lewrie asked. “What’s it called?”
“Tropea,” Caesar said with a grin. “Signore Quill, have map?”
A much-folded map was produced, and Caesar traced a grimy finger over it, then stabbed at the map, “There, signore. Tropea.”
Lewrie leaned over and laid a finger on it, himself. Tropea was about thirty miles North of the narrowest point of the Straits of Messina, just North of a West-trending bulge of land, and seeming isolated from other towns by at least ten miles.
Damme, do we hoist anchors from our current location round Four am, we could be off Tropea by Eight or Nine in the morning, Lewrie speculated; Leave by Two in the morning, and we could be there by dawn! If the bloody weather lets us, of course.
“I and my ships are anchored East of Milazzo, about halfway between there and Messina,” Lewrie told Caesar. “Once one of your boats has a chance to scout the town, the beach, and the depth of water off the fort, can you report to me there, sir?”
“Hmm, give me three, four days to go there, do what you ask, and come to your ship, Signore Luigi,” Caesar promised. “I get all you need to know.”
“It’s Lewrie, actually,” Lewrie corrected again.
“Signore Quill,” Caesar said, turning to the weedy Foreign Office man. “For this, I think we need one hundred pounds, in gold guineas. For the expenses.”
“You shall have it, signore,” Quill vowed, “though guineas are rare these days. Would one hundred and five pounds in silver do?”
“Same value? Si, non importa.” Caesar agreed, explaining the sum to his swarthy compatriots, who bared stained teeth in cheerful grins. Well, one of the ’Tonios had few left, and they were green.
To seal the bargain, one of Caesar’s men produced a stone crock of what he said was grappa, and Quill managed to turn up some suspect and grimy glasses so they could all toast.
Ain’t brandy, or grape-based, Lewrie thought, taking a cautious sniff of the spirit; looks like gin, or water. Might be harmless.
A second later and he changed his opinion. He’d drunk a raw, clear back-country whisky when he’d played spy in Spanish New Orleans—once!—but that harsh brew had nothing on grappa. Lewrie’s lips, tongue, and gums were on fire, his throat was searing, and what grappa would do when it reached an indifferent supper was best not contemplated!
“Whew, my … mine arse on a band-box!” he wheezed, which gave Caesar and his compatriots a good, back-slapping laugh.
It took all Lewrie had to very slowly finish that first glass, and he almost groaned aloud when one of the ’Tonios splashed a convivial finger or two more of grappa atop the remaining swallow. Liquid fire or not, Caesar and his smugglers sloshed down a fair amount of it before they decided at last to take their departure, by which time even Mr. Quill, more familiar with grappa, surely, was looking pained but too proud to show it. Hands were shaken all round before they left, slipping out into the hallway and stairwell as furtive as house-breakers to slink back to their lodgings, boats, or another tavern.
“Well, that was … different,” Lewrie said as he got his wind back. “Thank you, Mister Quill, for the introduction…”
“I’ve found that a white wine helps,” Quill suggested, going to one of his storage chests for a bottle, and poured them all liberally.
“What the Devil was that stuff?” Deavers muttered after tossing back the wine and swizzling it round his mouth to cool it. “Satan piss? Ah, thank you, sir. The wine does help.”
“Just doing my part for King and Country, Captain Lewrie,” the fellow replied, letting out a long “Aah!” of relief, then yawned. “It is late. We should turn in, do you not think? I have but the one bed-stead, but your man Deavers can doss down on the settee. If you do not mind sharing a bed for the night, sir.”
I’ll keep my boots and breeches on, Lewrie swore to himself; and I hope this fellow don’t snore as queer as he laughs.